After The End
by Steelfeathers
Summary: OneShot. The Autobots have won the war, but the victory isn't quite as sweet as some would have thought....rated for one word


What might happen on the way to recovery for a bot and a world.

No flames or disparaging remarks, please.

As always, I lay no claim to Transformers- It's not my idea and it's SO not my style to swipe someone's idea.

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After the End

In a way, it should have been a joyous moment. After so long- millions of years in fact- of endless war, it should have been an incredible high to finally be free. Free from strife. Free from violence. Free from having to watch over your shoulder at every turn to make sure that you weren't about to be blown to kingdom-come.

After days and months and endless years of war, it should have made Bumblebee ecstatic to know that they had finally wiped the Deceptions off the map, that the Autobots had won the Great War.

The femmes were able to come out of hiding, of course. Optimus was especially glad to be able to see Elita-1 again after the 4 million year separation. It would seem that everything was slowly, gradually working itself back into a state of peace.

Reconstruction had already begun, and Iacon was already well on its way to being fully restored. The Decepticons that hadn't been killed in the final battle were locked down in stasis in the bowls of the planet, never to see the light of Cybertron's sun, Tau Ceti, again.

For a moment, Bumblebee stood looking out of the high window at the half restored city below. Clean up crews had been working around the clock to get the place live-able again- they had done an excellent job too. It was unrecognizable from the terrible battleground it had been only a few Earthen days before. Suddenly an old term the Spike once used came to mind- _bloody_. If Transformers could bleed, the whole planet would have been coated red from the awful battle. And no matter how many times they ran the planet through the proverbial car-wash, or slapped a new coat of paint on it, it would be forever stained.

He could hear the ever present sounds of partying taking place throughout the levels of the building. Those who were young enough not to have seen much of the war took the opportunity to let loose and enjoy themselves. Not long ago Bumblebee would have joined them. Not long ago HE was considered young. Now he felt as old as Primus himself.

He refused to let his mind wander to those who had died, yet as he stood in that hallway, surrounded by what was left of the Ark's crew, it became next to impossible not to think of those who should have been there with them yet were not. Prowl. Bluestreak. Sideswipe. Hound. Chromia. Wheeljack. First Aid. Ultra Magnus. And Bumblebee felt his spark core contract painfully; Sparkplug, Chip, Carly.

And he knew, though no words were said, that everyone else with him in that hallway was alone in their own reminiscent thoughts where the dead could be alive and well, thinking only of those that had fallen.

Maybe, if their friends were still alive, then they too could be happy and party and pretend that absolutely nothing was wrong, that the whole of Cybertron wasn't painted with blood. For friends were the drug that made everything all-right again, and the withdrawl was almost too painful to bear.

Prime, he knew, had been hit the hardest. It was a victory, yes, but a hollow one. What songs could be sung to celebrate what millions had been slaughtered to achieve? What tales could be told that weren't tainted with remorse? What kind of leader wants a victory at that cost?

Kup, standing alone and silent, seemed to be the only one already past sorrow into a gruff defeat. The per-annual survivor stood leaning against the wall, arms crossed, studying the ground. As though he sensed Bumblebee's gaze, he lifted his head and fixed him with a sympathetic frown.

"Now you know. It ain't pretty kid, but there it is. Welcome to the survivor list. It ain't a place anyone who knows wants to be." His voice was gravely, yet somehow soft and understanding. Bumblebee realized that he wore a kind of badge of "honor" now. He had fought for the Autobots and won. In some long, far away day, those who were only sparklings now might praise his name as a hero of old. And for the first time, he was revolted at the idea.

The true heroes were the ones who never came back.

It was much easier to stare at the floor and to count the tiles. Life was less painful that way.

Kup spoke even more softly, "You should go see him, kid. Not all of your friends are gone- don't loose a good one like him."

Bumblebee sighed.

"But what if he hates me?" He winced, "I don't….can't….face that."

Kup looked at him with the most meaningful gaze he had- or ever would- see.

"If you've made it this far and let that stop you, than you're nothin' but a cowardly, lucky bastard."

He didn't know how he did it, but somehow Bumblebee found himself a few minutes later in the repair bay. Surprisingly, it was mostly empty. Those who needed to be fixed had already been taken care of, the dead had already been hauled away, and those with more critical injuries were stabilized and set up in their own little sections. Because there was no work to be done, he found Rachet absently wiping down an operating slab, a pained expression on his face. It was the same one Bumblebee himself felt yet was unable to show.

Rachet spoke without looking up, "You're not partying with the others." It wasn't a question- it was an affirmation.

"I-I came to see him," Rachet didn't bother to ask what 'him' he was talking about. Again, he already knew.

"He was very badly wounded, Bee. I had to replace most of his left side- it was taken off by that blast that hit him, you know," He looked like he was about to go on, but hesitated.

"No, I-I want to hear what happened. Don't hide it from me, Rachet. He's my friend too."

He sighed, "Left arm, left leg, left lung, four ribs- all new. Most of his skin is sytho-skin now too. He was very badly burned." He added as a way of explanation. Bumblebee winced. He had had no idea it was that bad. All he knew is that there had been blood everywhere when he had been brought in.

"Primus…" He muttered in awe.

Rachet stopped wiping and stayed bent over for a moment. Had he been human, Bumblebee would have sworn he had been on the verge of weeping.

"Come on." He muttered, putting down the rag in a way that showed how much he clearly wanted to throw it down hard enough to smash a hole in the floor. Throw something, hit something- ANYTHING- to take away the awful pain of sadness. Carly had told him once that crying made you feel better. But this pain was the poisoned kind- you could cry and cry and it would only make you feel worse.

He could still hear the sounds of a Stereo going from one of the parties.

Rachet pulled back a privacy curtain, revealing a small, antlike figure surrounded by machines. What Bee could see of Spike's exposed skin (that wasn't metal, covered by bandages or synoskin) was a dull, blistering red rimmed with white. The only place that was strangely untouched was his face, now pale and gaunt from pain.

Bumblebee could almost hear Spike screaming at him and cursing him and his race, yet strangely, when the boy opened his eyes and they focused on the yellow minibot, the only thing he did was smile faintly.

"Hi." He whispered weakly, his voice so soft that Bumblebee had to strain his audios to pick up the frail human voice. That wasn't right. Why wasn't he mad, or crying, or any other emotion besides wane happiness? He could have dealt with the screaming- in fact, he would have expected it. But not this.

Right then, he could have sworn that Spike was psychic. Slowly, he reached out his bandaged right hand to him, and Bumblebee carefully held the human hand on the tip of his finger, feeling the tiny human heart beat through its palm.

"Even the worst wounds heal, given time. The scars may never fade, but you will grow strong again. It hurts now, but it won't forever."

He shuddered, head bowed, then carefully replaced the human hand on the bed beside Spike, pulling the covers over it to keep it warm. Then, standing quickly, Bumblebee turned and left the room. But before he was entirely gone, Spike could have sworn that he felt a low trembling in the room, like the bass from a stereo, and his heart turned over with the feeling that someone had just walked over his grave.

Rachet came up to him, looking after Bumblebee then back down to the small human.

"You felt it?" He asked. Spike nodded barely. It still hurt too much to move.

Rachet looked at the boy for a long moment.

"That was the first, last, and only time you will ever hear a Transformer cry."


End file.
